#Unsettled

It is that time of year again. Summer nationals are looming, auditions are wrapping up, and the intense transition from a grueling regular season to the national stage is officially underway.

The stress is on. I love it. My fifteen-year-old daughter loves it. And we’ve built a circle of friends who live for it. It is a beautiful passion we all share.

Whenever people find out that I’m a “Dance Mom,” one of the first questions I get is always the same, accompanied by a little smirk: “Is it just like the reality TV show?”

The short answer is no—not on that level.

But if we are being completely transparent, every subculture has its own ecosystem. Yes, there is drama sometimes. Yes, there are favorites, and yes, there are cliques. But when those girls step out into the center of the stage, they are united by a singular, burning goal: they want to win, they want to put on the performance of their lives, and they want to shine.

This past season, I’ve intentionally taken a step back from the usual backstage socializing. Mostly because I’ve been busy writing, observing, and realizing I just need my own space to process the world.

Don’t get me wrong—I have made some amazing friends at our studio. My daughter has found a couple of her “tribe members,” but just like any group of teenagers, the girls get along one moment and bicker the next; it’s just the architecture of growing up.

I watch these girls handle their lives, and I am consistently blown away by how mature they are at such a young age. In fact, during our late-night vent sessions, it’s often the kids who completely flip the script on me, forcing me to see a situation from an entirely fresh perspective.

But with that maturity comes an immense, sometimes terrifying amount of pressure.

A few months ago at a competition, I watched a dancer from another studio completely break down after she didn’t place. It was a massive, heartbreaking spectacle—she genuinely believed her life was over right then and there.

It made me stop and wonder: Are we pushing these kids to the brink of a mental breakdown just for a plastic trophy?

Thankfully, I don’t feel that weight at our studio. Yes, our instructors are firm, they push our dancers to the absolute edge of their potential, and they absolutely want to win. But our studio owner makes an intentional effort to keep our space safe. She reminds the kids to enjoy the journey.

The sport of dance is unique. Before it is a competition, it is a form of expression. It is an appreciation for music, movement, and human emotion. It is art.

In traditional sports, the rules are clear. A ball is in bounds or it’s out. A runner is safe or they are out. The box score doesn’t care about your feelings.

But at a dance competition? There is no absolute rubric for scoring. It is a subjective evaluation of art, wrapped tightly inside the skin of an elite sport.

I know I’m biased because ballet was a massive part of my own youth. But because I’ve lived in both worlds, I will confidently put a competitive dancer’s sheer athletic ability up against any traditional sport on the planet. The core strength, the cardio endurance, the flexibility, and the pain tolerance required to make the impossible look effortless is staggering.

Dance walks a razor-thin wire between performing art and high-stakes sport—you have to have the lungs of a marathon runner, but the face of a storyteller.

Which brings me to the reality that dance parenting also belongs in its own unique category. I have made some beautiful friends and bonded with some women whom I never would have met had it not been for dance, but on the flip side, this environment does breed a very specific type of parent—the type we see on TV, the wolf in sheep’s clothing, the “dance mom.”

These are the moms who use the mask of being “involved” to play political games, trying to get as close to the instructors as possible in hopes of buying their child a temporary leg up. Every single studio has them. Ours is no exception.

The funny thing about wolves, though, is that their sheep costumes are usually pretty terrible. I can spot them a mile away—a superpower I’ve perfected after growing up with a father in Major League Baseball and spending over two decades married to a professional athlete. When you spend half a century watching the politics of elite sports, you learn to see through the noise instantly.

I avoid those individuals like the plague. Of course, I can put on the polite, politically correct mask when the situation demands it—and that’s a survival skill I am actively teaching my own children.

I am not a mom who will ever play the political game for my kid. If she deserves a spot in the front row, she has to sweat for it and earn it herself. And does it always work out in her favor? No.

But she knows how the game is rigged, and she would honestly rather rock her “back-left-corner warrior” spot with her head held high than betray her own integrity for a center-stage placement.

Do I think my girl is spectacular? 100%. Is she the absolute best dancer at our studio? No—but she is pretty darn good, and she knows there is always a higher ceiling to reach.

I think the absolute best gift of being a dance mom is the connection I’ve built with my daughter. Both music and dance are ingrained in the deepest parts of our souls, and we watch the stage together with trained eyes, completely marveling at the breathtaking talent on the circuit. Neither of us has ever had the time or energy for the jealousy game; we just appreciate the gift of the art.

Recently, encouraged by her best friend, my daughter ventured outside our usual competition circuit to try something new. I’ll admit, it was incredibly refreshing at first just to see a different stage. But my hours of people-watching quickly proved that the human cycle is identical wherever you go.

There were plenty of wolves waiting in those new lobbies, too.

But beneath the drama, there was also an overwhelming amount of beautiful, raw humanity. The genuine, supportive, clear-eyed dance moms make up well over 99% of the parents I have met on this journey.

And that ratio is pretty accurate across the board. Whether you are a cheer mom, a baseball mom, a soccer mom, or a debate club mom—there is always that one person who behaves badly enough to give the entire group a terrible stereotype.

You can’t let the 1% dictate your joy. You just have to be willing to take a giant step back, eat a little humble pie, and consciously refuse to let the backstage noise suck you in.

Keep your glass half full. Appreciate the talent of the kids sharing the stage with yours. And remember that the ultimate assignment is simply to be the steady, positive support system our kids need to navigate the spotlight.